"You're here, Fi?" Natasha's soft voice floated across the room, warm and airy like a breeze passing through silk. She smiled gently at Fiona, so gently that for a moment Fiona felt her breath catch in her throat. Natasha always looked like she had stepped out of a dream, but tonight, despite her pale face and slightly trembling hands, she still shone.
Natasha pushed herself up from the couch, trying to stand even though the tips of her fingers shook faintly. The moment she rose, her body swayed. Her knees buckled.
She almost fell.
But Jackson moved before anyone else could blink.
His arm wrapped around Natasha's waist, firm and instinctive, pulling her close to keep her from collapsing. His hand settled at the small of her back, steady and protective, as if holding someone he cared for deeply.
"Be careful," he scolded, his voice sharp with worry. "I told you to take care of yourself, but no, you never listen. Do you even see yourself right now?"
His dark brows were drawn together, his jaw tight, all his attention pinned entirely, fiercely, on Natasha.
People around them exchanged glances, whispers slipping quietly between them.
"They look like a couple…"
"He's way too attentive."
"And isn't he Fiona's fiancé?"
"Are we at the wrong party?"
Fiona felt her stomach twist, a slow, cold ache spreading through her chest.
Natasha laughed weakly, leaning slightly against Jackson's arm. "I'm okay… really. I'm not too delicate."
But her voice trembled delicately, frail in a way that made everyone instinctively want to protect her.
And Jackson looked at her as if she were made of glass.
His thumb brushed gently over Natasha's waist. "Sit down. I'm serious."
Fiona stood only a few feet away, watching silently as her fiancé held another woman, her stepsister, the girl who already consumed the entire world's attention. Natasha's beauty glowed even in sickness, her white dress clinging softly to her thin frame, making her appear angelic.
Around them, the room's lighting seemed to soften, as if even the air adored her.
For a moment Fiona forgot to breathe.
Her red dress suddenly felt too bright, too tight, and she felt like she didn't belong in this picture.
Fiona took a step back, her fingers curling around her own wrist as she tried to steady her trembling breath, the embarrassment from earlier mixing now with something else.
"Your dress is nice, sister-in-law," one of Jackson's friends said, his tone gentle, as if he sensed Fiona's embarrassment.
Fiona lifted her head and gave him a small, polite smile. "Thank you," she whispered.
But the words felt hollow inside her chest.
Only the dress looked nice.
Not her.
Not her body.
She lowered her gaze, smoothing her hands over the red skirt in a nervous habit she couldn't control.
And Jackson finally turned toward her.
His eyes swept over her, quick, sharp, assessing. A faint frown tugged at his brows.
Her stomach looked bloated.
Her face looked too flushed.
Her arms too exposed.
He didn't say a word, but something disappointed flickered in his gaze before he looked away again. Fiona felt the sting of it, small but piercing, settling right beneath her ribs.
She wished she had worn something different. She wished she had stayed home. She wished she didn't care so much.
Around her, the music grew louder, glasses clinked, laughter rang out. The party slowly woke to life as Jackson's friends gathered near the bar, ordering drinks, teasing each other, celebrating loudly.
Fiona stood alone for a moment in the wide space, her hands loosely clasped in front of her, her breathing uneven. She glanced at Jackson, who was busy talking to two of his friends while Natasha sat elegantly nearby, chatting with a girl who looked at her with admiration.
Fiona felt a gentle push at her back.
"Come sit," one of the girls said kindly, offering her a small smile.
Fiona nodded, grateful for even this thin thread of kindness, and walked toward the couch. She sat down slowly, her body sinking into the soft cushions. The room felt too bright, the air too heavy with perfume and expensive cologne.
She clasped her hands in her lap, pushing her shoulders back, trying to look composed, trying to smile, trying to pretend she belonged here.
Natasha laughed softly at something a friend said.
Jackson smiled.
Everyone looked relaxed.
Everyone looked beautiful.
Everyone looked like they were exactly where they should be.
And Fiona sat in her tight red dress, her chest aching, her breath shaky, forcing herself not to shift too much so the fabric wouldn't highlight her stomach even more.
She looked around quietly.
Fiona could barely breathe.
The noise, the lights, the way everyone's eyes slid past her as if she were part of the furniture, it all pressed against her chest until she felt her ribs folding inward. She rose quickly from the couch, her hands trembling as she smoothed the tight dress over her hips.
"I… I need to fix my makeup," she murmured to no one in particular, slipping out of the circle before anyone noticed she was leaving.
As she walked away, weaving through the crowd, she wasn't sure if she truly heard it or if her mind was punishing her, but Jackson's voice drifted faintly in the air behind her, sharp and careless.
"Okay, okay… You shouldn't have worn so much makeup. Look at Natasha. She didn't even wear any."
The words stabbed her mid-step.
Her throat tightened. Heat rushed up her neck. She quickened her pace, heart pounding.
By the time she pushed through the bathroom door she could hardly see through her blurring vision. She leaned over the counter, gripping the cold marble edge, staring at her reflection.
Her bold lipstick suddenly looked too bright. Her eyeliner too harsh. Her lashes too curled, too much.
Her cheeks too flushed.
Her green eyes, her favorite feature, looked red and watery now, trembling with unshed tears.
"Do they… look pretty?" she whispered to herself shakily. "Or am I just imagining it?"
Her reflection didn't answer.
Before she could breathe, a sharp voice cracked through the bathroom like a whip.
"You creepy woman! What the hell are you doing?!"
Fiona jerked upright, eyes wide. She turned and saw a man standing near the sinks, shock and anger flashing across his arrogant face.
"You, what are you doing in the women's washroom?!" Fiona shouted back, her voice breaking with fear and humiliation.
The man scoffed loudly, stepping closer with unsteady steps. His eyes were bloodshot, the smell of alcohol clinging to him like smoke.
"You idiot!" he barked. "You walked into the men's washroom!"
Fiona froze.